


Followed

by putconspiraciesinit



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Political RPF - US 19th c.
Genre: Aliases, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Pet Names, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putconspiraciesinit/pseuds/putconspiraciesinit
Summary: The manhunt ended thirteen years ago, but Aaron Burr can never seem to move past it.





	Followed

**Author's Note:**

> So fun fact, after Burr's vice-presidency ended, Thomas Jefferson sent people to secretly follow him around all the time.  
I like to imagine that contributed a bit to Burr's mental breakdown.
> 
> Also, Burr really did go by "Kirby" and "Edwards," but I've never seen what first name he used while going as "Kirby," so I just went with "Jonathan" because it's generic and Burr knew a bunch of people named that.

“Must the windows always be shut? Can’t we get some  _ air  _ in here?”

“Please, my dear, you must understand. You’re free to open the windows if you must--whenever I am  _ not _ here! It would be imprudent to have them open while I am in the house, you see.”

“How would it be imprudent?”

“They--what if somebody hears something? We regularly speak of topics in here that we cannot very well speak of outside, you know. We must be  _ cautious _ , Luther. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“My love…” Martin began, tentatively, reaching over to take Burr’s hand in his. “Thomas Jefferson is in his eighties. He hasn’t been president for years. That Mr. Adams, I honestly don’t believe he’ll try anything.”

“Luther, please,” Burr pleaded. “It doesn’t even have to be  _ them _ , it could be anybody; you know how the public feels about me. I--I’ll go out for walks more frequently, so that you can have the windows open more often, if you would like that!”

“No need to do that, now. I enjoy your company far too much. Could we perhaps open them at night, when nobody is outside anymore?”

Burr sighed.

“Well...yes, I suppose that would be alright.”

***

They went out together, when they could.

“I’m sure you understand,” said Burr, eyes darting from side to side faster than usual, which Martin had learned was a sure sign he was nervous, “it may not be quite...advisable for me to go out on my own. Not just yet.”

Martin didn’t object. He figured he might as well enjoy being able to go out and socialize while he could still walk.

The outings, unfortunately, became few and far between, as Burr visibly enjoyed them less and less, and Martin couldn’t usually be bothered to go out alone.

“So, er--I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” the woman Burr was talking with said.

“Um,” said Burr. Someone who didn’t know Burr very well wouldn’t be able to tell he was nervous, but Martin could see it clear as day. “My name is...Kirby. Jonathan Kirby.”

***

“I just can’t seem to enjoy it anymore,” said Burr, dejected. “I used to enjoy  _ nothing _ more than going out and socializing like that, but they ask too many questions!”

“Like your name?”

“Well, I---you see,--it’s just--I can’t just go about telling  _ whoever _ who I am, all willy-nilly! Why do they need to know, anyways? I’ve always found it possible to have a perfectly nice conversation with a complete and utter stranger.”

“Would it kill you to use your real name, though?”

“God, Luther, it  _ might _ ! I don’t know. That’s just it, isn’t it? I can’t know. I can never know who’s safe to be honest with and who isn’t, until I’m staring down the barrel of a gun! It is better to be  _ cautious _ .”

***

They still had guests over, sometimes. For breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or whatever. Burr and Martin were social creatures, and surely being shut away from society couldn’t be healthy for the children. Vanderlyn visited often, but sometimes Martin was able to convince Burr to invite people he was only casually acquainted with.

A knock came on the front door. Burr leapt up to answer it. He grabbed his cane--the one which concealed a sword--and opened the door.

“Good evening, sir!” he said, jovially.

“Good evening, Mr. Edwards,” responded the young man at the door.

“Now--er, before you come in, I must ask, were you followed?”

There was silence, for a few seconds.

“...I’m sorry, sir?  _ Followed _ ?”

“Oh, do forgive me. Old habits, you know. Nevermind all that, do come in!”

***

Martin watched from his rocking-chair as Burr fretted about the house, evidently looking for something.

“I swear, I put it down not an hour ago…”

“Aaron, dearest, what are you looking for? It’s the middle of the night!”

“My pocket pistol! I would like to go out for a walk.”

Ten years ago, Martin would question why in God’s name Burr never left the house without a small, easily-concealed weapon on his person. Nowadays, he didn’t particularly care. In fact, he had almost forgot it wasn’t perfectly normal to insist on such a thing when leaving the house.

“I...er, have you checked the pocket of your blue coat? I believe you wore that, the last time you went out.”

“Oh! I am an ass.”

Burr laughed, and rushed into his room, reappearing a few seconds later.

“I’ve found it, it was indeed in my blue coat--well, I suppose I should be off, then! I shall return within the hour.”

The door opened and shut and Martin sighed. Burr kept an awful lot of weapons around the house, hidden in secret compartments and under or inside furniture, in case of a break-in. His umbrella hid a long dagger. Even one of his  _ pocket-watches _ had a miniature gun hidden in it, which seemed a tad excessive. Martin wondered sometimes if Burr had learned a thing or two from Blennerhassett, all those years ago (though Blennerhassett had showed a strong preference for knives and the like, whereas Burr seemed to favor firearms).

***

Burr liked going for walks at this time of night; it was pitch-dark, and nobody else was insane enough to be out at such an ungodly hour.

It was quiet, too. Very quiet. Quiet enough that if anybody were to approach Burr, he would certainly hear it. Old age had not robbed him of any of his senses, thankfully.

He took a different route each time. Familiar routes were nice, but they were also easy for somebody else to pick up on.

He walked fast, then slowed down, then sped up, then slowed down, always unsure of whether he wanted to remain outside and savor the general atmosphere of the city at three in the morning, or whether he wanted to get back to the security of his home, and to Martin, whom he didn’t like leaving alone for too long.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps.

Burr clutched his pistol.  _ It’s no-one _ , he told himself.  _ In all likelihood, just another sleep-deprived type who likes the atmosphere and the aesthetic of cities at night.  _ Still, he didn’t take his hand out of his pocket. Just in case. Started walking faster.

_ The house is about seven blocks away _ , he thought,  _ so if the worst-case scenario happens, I can’t run there.  _ He scanned his surroundings.  _ Some of these trees look fairly easy to climb. If I run into an alleyway it will be darker and I will be harder to spot, but then if they run after me, it will be harder to fight them off. It may be dangerous to turn up on some stranger’s doorstep and ask if I can stay for a couple of hours; what if the stranger turns out to be an agent? A politician? No, I can’t do that. The trees are my best bet. But I’m weak, and I haven’t climbed a tree in eighteen years! And tree-climbing is slow. Is this it?  _

Burr’s heart raced. His whole body felt uncomfortably hot. It was getting hard to breathe. He clutched his pistol until his knuckles turned white.

The source of the footsteps, however, simply passed right by. The man, a tall, shabbily-dressed fellow in his thirties or forties, hardly seemed to notice Burr’s presence.


End file.
